Cruel April


Funny how green

Can bleed from red,

Life can sprout

From the frozen and the dead.

Cruel April is here,

Lamb-killer’s neighbour,

Freedom’s grim and tenacious

Marauder missionary;

Demanding faith, seed and labour:

Fees for continued redemption and

Resurrection-summer order.


“There Is No Dark Side …”


Coming through in waves:

Of memory

Of mood,

Of emotion –

Even distant echoes ,

Edges of rough texture

Can be


In the uncertain heart

Of charcoal nights,

Sodium flash storms…

Eloquence of bent light,

Hypnotic, iconic lines:

A sadness,

A comfort,

An inspiration:

Refraction’s ultimate paradox.







Ella’s Alarm!

The mantel clock ticks

And time’s candle-sands tock,

Dripping ellipses into our

Life’s-a-stage lives.

Cleanin’ lady’s got

The button-down blues,

Landlord’s fantasies

Won’t be stilled

And the ugly, pendulum bouncers

Are sighing, yearning for the

Grey pumpkin deadline.


Terrible sounds and memories from a

Long gone troubled English evening

Tumbling over and over, reach me:

Carried on a Patriot wind.

Charity and lavender dreams shattered,

Runner camaraderie staggered

– Hopefully only temporarily –

Here in the original Tea Party City

– Where a different way to

Make a point was born.

We, the naïve, the unsuspecting

May make such easy casual-slaughter victims;

But remember  your secret,

Dark-mask shadows

Are not welcome here …

The fact that you can

Gives you no rights.

Please let this finish line

Be the last.




Dangerous Blues

Bright , pin-sharp cries

Of angel gulls,

Carrying on the winds of time;

Ghosts of past and

Spirits of future …

Echo …


These are the vulnerable blues;

I could have been so dangerous:

Back in the day.

Tides in the sky,

Clouds in the sea;

Which way is up?

Waves in the desert.

Half-way down April’s decision-river –

My darling-dancer’s coming home today –

But I won’t be there,

And I won’t be coming back.

Echo …

… Echo.

These are dangerous blues:

I am so vulnerable



All Behind Me Now ?

Last night’s rain,

The fence-creeping wet-poor fox,

The savage dreams of screaming men

Are all behind me now.

But their faces remain:

Dangled before me when I close my eyes;

I do not recognise a single one.

Am I supposed to?

Were they trying to pass on

A terrible secret?

Or had they just uncovered

The unholy lie?

I have no idea …

Their words, framed by desperate lips

Were lost to me, to everyone,

Their voices stolen.

Wise men say I cannot

Dream in colour.

If it is so, then black and white are

Cruelly vivid and dreadfully revealing.

Morning-of-April skies press the

New blue pages

 – Spring’s first chapter –

Against my unglazed windows.


First, the Arriving …

From the fog,

From the foam;

First, the arriving,

Then the striving –

Get it right,

Keep it tight –

On the roads,

On the ropes.

Between the round one corner

And the canvas

Is nothing more than physical pain.

Why so worried ?


Dawn Raid


Posturing, posing, taking possession –

Of your spaces, of your senses –

Pompous popinjay bounce ‘n’ bob aggression, intimidation.

Vicious corvid nation’s screaming confrontation,

Action is reaction,

Aerial, balance and counter lamentation.


Not for an in-breath:

Harsh, dry fire machine-gun chatter is

In your skies, in your ears:

Bibbed, tuckered harlequin lobbyists

Refusing to take no for an answer;

“An inch? Not enough,

A yard is better but we need more!”

Dark-feather banners,

Be-damned demands, threats and refusal’s echoes,

Dog-fight bluff and communication concentration.

Territorial gunfighter-time, serious dispute

Limits and boundaries to maintain, refute.

A military versus terrorist resolution matter.

Arrogant challenge, wing-tip spin, dodge and wheel.

“Do not back down, do not agree, don’t deal!”

Draw the thin air,

Breeding zone, feeding drone

Spiteful Valkyrie battle lines:

Risk the noise of black and white fines.

Aggressive, assertive we-have-rights ridge tile invaders;

Usurpers, hungry chancers, challengers, dividers.

Out for mischief, Out for kidnap, extortion,

The good of the tribe.

Cast your pirate council vote:

Dapper-democracy magpie parliament

Or dark-as-Bible-cover

Murder of crows




Way Past Numbers

She’s way past numbers,
He’s given up counting;
Their eyes, their lives
So full of history’s snow
Neither can remember the
Last time they
Enjoyed the silver powder thunder.
She can’t hear what the  one-armed drummer is saying,
He just can’t quite recognise tune the blue guitarist is playing:
Does either of them realise,
Does either of them care any more, that
It’s the doll-devil they’re paying?
Hey-ho, there’s just one letter’s difference
Between the bomb
And the final, sad, slip-away mistake.